Here's a crazy story for ya - and believe me I'm far from comfortable with telling the story - but if I'm going to put it all out there, this goes along with the territory I suppose.
I won't mention names or places or fault or blame. It's in the past and it's time to let go of it and move on. It's hard to do. I've tried before. Just a couple years after I learned to deal with one horrible memory, I was suddenly, violently reminded of another. I was a grown woman before I truly remembered either event, but I was 27 when I was reminded of the worst one by a face from the past.
It's one of the hardest things to write. I can't seem to force my hands to spell the words I need. Never am I at a loss for words when I sit down to write. Writers block is a foreign concept to me. I've been very blessed that way. But even though I know what I want to say, what I NEED to say, I can't seem to force myself to say it. I had horrible things done to me when I was young and I never told anyone because I was too afraid of what people would think of me. I never wanted to be the victim and have people feel sorry for me, but all I did by not telling someone about what had happened was victimize myself. Even now as I struggle to find the words, I fear the pitty I know some of you will undoubtedly feel for me - but DON'T! Do not pitty me, it was I who refused to tell and I who will be found at fault.
No less than a half a dozen times now I've sat back in the chair and wondered how to proceed. I want to tell the world, and yet I don't. I want to let go of everything painful in my past so that I might begin to do something about the self-destructive road I've put myself on, and I think at this point writing is far more therapudic than talking to a therapist for me. If I'm going to tell a stranger everything about me, why not tell the world??
When I was 4 years old someone pulled me behind the bushes not far from my own front door and did things they shouldn't. They even brought a friend. Until some bizarre series circumstances revealed this in my memory, I had completely blocked it out. I remembered at 26 years old. It was an incredibly traumatic, sudden realization for me. I cried for days. Once the memory started, it didn't stop. I remembered the details, like the branches of the bush scratching me on the arms and legs and my mother later asking why I was so scratched up. I remember telling her that I was playing in the bushes and her eyes grew wide. She told me never to go back there again - but it wasn't the last time I was pulled back behind the bushes. It happened many more times after that. I never told.
Again I find myself sitting back and staring at the screen, knowing full well that I have done all but state the fact and I know I can't force myself to. My hands are shaking and my mind is reeling. What have I done in starting this post? What have I done? I'm meant to let go of the past, not let it control me as it seems to do. It's controlled me so often and so much - and I never even remembered any of it until I was 26 years old. Yet it's played a vital part of why I'm such a horrible person. Still I'm afraid to tell anyone. We were only children, all of us. I should have run away. I should have told. But I didn't want anyone to get into trouble so I lied. I pretended like I was fine. I wonder if I ever will be.
I can't do it.
Honestly I just said those words right out loud between sobs. I can't do it. I can't even now tell anyoone about what happened all those years ago. I don't know how. I'm sure anyone would be able to figure it out by now, and it's a shame I've put so much time into writing this because I doubt now that I will ever have the courage to post it... and I haven't even mentioned the second time - when I was nearly a teenager.